Sphinx, down whose rugged face The sliding centuries their furrows cleave By sun and frost and cloud-burst; scarce to leave Perceptible a trace Of age or sorrow; Faint hints of yesterdays with no to-morrow;-- My mind regards thee with a questioning eye, To know thy secret, high. If Theban mystery, With head of woman, soaring, bird-like wings And serpent's tail on lion's trunk, were things Puzzling in history; And men invented For it an origin which represented Chimera and a monster double-headed, By myths Phenician wedded-- Their issue being this-- This most chimerical and wonderous thing From whose dumb mouth not even the gods could wring Truth, nor antithesis: Then, what I think is, This creature--being chief among men's sphinxes-- Is eloquent, and overflows with story, Beside thy silence hoary! Nevada!--desert waste! Mighty, and inhospitable, and stern; Hiding a meaning over which we yearn In eager, panting haste-- Grasping and losing, Still being deluded ever by our choosing-- Answer us Sphinx: What is thy meaning double But endless toil and trouble? Inscrutable, men strive To rend thy secret from thy rocky breast; Breaking their hearts, and periling heaven's rest For hopes that cannot thrive; Whilst unrelenting, Upon thy mountain throne, and unrepenting, Thou sittest, basking in a fervid sun, Seeing or hearing none. I sit beneath thy stars, The shallop moon beached on a bank of clouds--; And see thy mountains wrapped in shadowed shrouds, Glad that the darkness bars The day's suggestion-- The endless repetition of one question; Glad that thy stony face I cannot see, Nevada--Mystery! THE VINE. "Too many clusters weaken the vine"-- And that is why, on this morn in May, She who should walk doth weakly recline By the window whose view overlooks the Bay; While I and the "clusters" dance in the sun, Defying the breeze coming in from the sea, Mocking the bird-song and chasing the bee, Letting our fullness of mirth over-run, While the "Vine" at the window smiles down on our glee. If I should vow that these "clusters" are fair, So, you would say, are a million more; Ah, even jewels a rank must share-- Not every diamond's a Koh-i-noor! Thus when our LILLIAN, needing but wings, Plays us the queen of the fairies, we deem Grace such as hers a bewildering dream-- Her laughter, her gestures, a dozen things, Furnish our worshiping fondness a theme.